Thanks to patriots like Morley Piper, we can wave our red, white and blue

     Do you have any idea what Hell-on-earth would be like?  Ask Morley Piper.  He’s no Michelangelo, but he can paint that hellish picture.  On June 6, 1944, as a 19-year-old untested Army officer, Morley was sardine-packed on a Higgins boat, lurching toward Normandy’s Omaha Beach.

     The sky hung low, like a giant gray blanket to be dropped over the dead.  The Atlantic Ocean roiled in anger—as if it were on Hitler’s side—and Allied troops fought back seasickness and fear before they plunged into the salty waters.  Soldiers prayed their combat boots would hit bottom, lest they be pushed to a drowning death beneath their 70-pound packs.

     Morley was one of the lucky ones.  He waded ashore through a hail of German gunfire.  The sea and sand turned red as blood—much of it American blood, spilled everywhere.  As one of his comrades writhed in pain, the teenage second lieutenant called for a medic.  Miraculously, two corpsmen appeared “out of nowhere” to scoop up the wounded infantryman.  

     Morley watched as the pair scampered—with the stretcher—to what they hoped was safety.  Seventy-one years later, he can still see the human carnage from the exploding land mine beneath their feet.  On Day 2 of the invasion, the freshly commissioned leader could account for only 17 of his 42-man platoon in the 29th Infantry Division.

     For 50 years, the newspaper executive couldn’t or wouldn’t talk about those horrific World War II memories.  Finally, Morley’s family coaxed the reluctant hero to tell his story—the American story—of how the United States helped crush Nazi forces, liberating France and ultimately the Free World, once Japan fell, too.

Since his change of mind, Morley guestimates that he’s given 25 speeches.  On the eve of D-Day’s 71st anniversary, I listened as he repainted the hellish picture for members of the Georgia Press Association on Jekyll Island.

World War II hero was highly skilled in dropping bombs and keeping secrets

     Frank Roberts dropped his share of bombs in World War II.  As a B-17 pilot, Capt. Roberts and

his crew of eight pounded Nazi targets, especially over German-occupied France.  But this humble hero was so quiet that his most daring sortie was kept hush-hush from even his children for almost 70 years—14 years after his death.

     Six months ago, a cousin, Allen Miles, dropped this war-story bomb on the Army Air Force officer’s three children, Susan Roberts, Frank B. Roberts Jr. and Jane Roberts Robertson.  Susan was the first to hear the 1945 story, sending shockwaves through the family.  

How could they not know this?

     The answer is simple. 

Like so many other war heroes, Frank didn’t talk about his exploits.  He did his part.  He survived.  He came home to his young wife’s arms.  And, as a member of The Greatest Generation, he helped kick-start America’s middle class in the post-war economic recovery. 

But as my friend Jane recounted the details of her dad’s bold mission, the retired elementary school principal is still mystified by his silence.  But she’s grateful a cousin revealed this death-defying saga that could have been Hollywood-scripted for John Wayne.  

     In Adolph Hitler’s quest to stomp his hobnail boots in the free world’s face, the dictator was ruthless in his attacks on France, England, Poland and other European countries.  America’s mother country was proud when her offspring showed up to challenge the bloodthirsty bully.  And that’s what Captain Roberts and his seven airmen were doing when they lifted off from Podington, England.

     But it was somewhere over France that “they took on fire,” Jane says.  With smoke pouring from the plane, the Americans ejected, Capt. Roberts being the last.  At least one crew member was known dead. Two reportedly escaped and slipped back to England, with the help of Frenchmen.  The fate of four others was unknown, but Capt. Roberts landed in a ditch, near a German-occupied airfield.  

     Hearing planes above and tired of hiding, he reportedly walked into a hangar—“like he owned the place.”  There, he spent the night.  At sunrise, Roberts heard an engine running.  Peeking out, he spotted an observation plane warming up on the tarmac.  The cockpit was empty.  Snitching a German flight suit and hat, he strolled onto the runway and climbed into the plane.  An unsuspecting ground attendant removed the chocks, and the American pilot roared off, England-bound, in an enemy plane.

     After flying as high as he could, he crossed the English Channel, dodging British gunfire. And then as he swooped low, his “borrowed” plane was peppered with anti-aircraft rounds, causing it to crash into a field. When Roberts climbed out, armed farmers surrounded his plane, ready to shoot. “But I’m an American,” he insisted.  Looking at the plane’s swastika and his German uniform, a surly Englishman snarled, “Yeah, and I’m Winston Churchill.”

Ron Adams is still tickled about his honor in Winterville

    Have you ever tried to pull a practical joke and have it backfire—on you?

     That’s what happened to Winterville City Councilman Ron Adams about 30 years ago.  I remember 

Ron telling me the story.  So last week, I went looking for the still-standing evidence—all 58 feet of it.

     Winterville, population 1133, is the smallest city in Clarke County, which is the smallest county in Georgia.  And when Clarke County and Athens consolidated in 1991, Winterville said, “No, thanks.”  It was and still is happy to do its own thing.  And if you haven’t driven around the tiny town lately, you should.  Restored historic homes surround manicured green spaces, and civic pride speaks—loudly—without saying a word.  Mayberry is fictional, but Winterville is for real.

     That’s why Ron and his wife, Mary, chose Winterville in the early 1980s, settling on Georgia Avenue, which stretches parallel to Main Street.  Before long, Ron was scratching the political itch that runs in his family.  Ronald Adams, his late father, was once a state senator and later a state court judge in Brunswick.  Ron’s aunt, Mrs. Jean Adams Walker, was married to Randall Walker, who once served as mayor of Jesup.    

     Ron was elected to the Winterville City Council during Mayor Wesley Whitehead’s tenure.  “Mayor Whitehead called Councilman Don Bower and me Gold Dust One and Gold Dust Two,” Ron said, when I called him last week.  

     In 1989, Ron resigned from C&S bank in Athens and moved to Glynn County. He needed to be closer to his ailing mother.  I met Ron in Brunswick.  He was a loan officer at American National bank, and I was on the board of directors.  And that’s when I first heard about the Winterville political hijinks.

     When I told Ron that I had unfurled my 100-foot measuring tape to document the evidence of his gone-awry joke, he started laughing.  I laughed listening to him laugh.  

    Here’s how it goes.  When the railroad decided to take up the tracks that ran between Main Street and Georgia Avenue, that left a long, grassy stretch on the west side of Winterville.  Motorists had to go “too far” to cross over from Main to Georgia and vice versa.